Page 83 of Covetous

“Aww, Liv.” My eyes water, but this time, they’re happy tears. I reach out and pull her into a tight hug, her tears dampening my shoulder.

When we pull apart, Liv wipes her eyes, a watery smile on her face. “How are things with you and Victor?”

“We’re doing okay. But it’s been hard.”

“That’s understandable, with everything that’s happened.”

I sigh, confessing, “I know he’s hurting too. But he hasn’t opened up yet—at least, not to me. Not that I’ve given him much of a chance. I’ve been kind of a mess.”

Liv nods in understanding, a small wince in the corners of her eyes. “I saw him at the cemetery, and he looked…wrecked.”

I’d noticed it too, especially after offering his condolences to Ms. Sharon. They’d shared a brief conversation, and though I tried not to stare, I couldn’t help but notice the pain searing through him as she spoke with him. “I wanted to hug him so bad.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Esme’s mom doesn’t know about us.”

Clearing her throat, Liv says, “Gotcha.”

“But he’s been my rock, Liv. And I want to be his too, but I don’t know how to be. I’m barely keeping it together.”

With what looks like sincerity filling her eyes, she assures me, “You guys will get through this. I know you will.”

In my heart, I know she’s right. Somehow, we’ll find our way back to a better place, even if it’s one tiny step at a time.

Cutting through my thoughts, Liv says, “Let’s toast.”

“To what?”

For a moment, Liv’s face falls in agony, but she pushes it away, straightening her shoulders. “To sisterhood.” The same toast we made with Esme.

Taking a shuddering breath, I lift my glass. “To sisterhood.”

It’s after nine when Liv and I say our goodbyes outside of Harry’s, emotionally drained but grateful for the time we spent together. I take a deep breath as I head to my car, the cool air hitting my lungs as I inhale the fresh, clean scent of the night air after a day of cleansing rain.

Despite already having a few things at Victor’s, I stop by my apartment to change out of my dress. The short drive provides a moment of solitude, allowing me to process the day’s events. As I enter my apartment, the silence feels heavy, almost suffocating. I quickly gather my belongings, eager to leave the emptiness behind.

By the time I reach Victor’s loft, it’s raining again. As I type in the code to his front door, exhaustion weighs heavily on my body, making my movements sluggish.

The only light comes from the stove, darkness greeting me as I enter. I scan the room, searching for Victor, until I spot his silhouette by the window. He sits motionless in a couch chair, a glass of scotch dangling from his fingers. His shoulders are slumped and his brow is furrowed as he stares out at the relentless rain pelting against the windows and streaking down the glass. Even in the dark, the devastation etched into his features is unmistakable, and my heart clenches at the sight.

As he starts to get up, I rush over, my feet eating up the space. I climb into his lap, curling around him. His arms encircle me, his muscles relaxing under my touch as if my presence alone holds him together.

Silence settles between us, and I press gentle kisses along his jaw, my lips finding the soft skin of his neck. As he draws me closer, his chest rises and falls with a steadying breath. “Hey,” he finally rasps, handing me his almost-empty glass.

“Hey,” I say, before drinking up the rest, wincing at the burn. “It’s okay to be sad—to miss her. I know how much you cared about her.”

Sitting back, Victor swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the words are too heavy to speak. “I spoke with Ms. Sharon today at the cemetery.”

“How’d it go?” They’d hugged for a long time after.

His head drops, eyes slipping closed. When they open, they fix on me, glassy and brilliantly blue. In that moment, I see it—a flicker of something so profound, so devastating. Drawing in a breath, I hold it, preparing myself for the blow. Whatever he’s about to tell me has the power to break us, but we won’t let it. Because what’s the alternative? Being apart? I couldn’t bear it. Neither could he.

“She…she said Esme was pregnant,” he says.

Slapping my hand over my mouth, I choke on a sob that I force myself to swallow back. He needs me right now, and I won’t break down. Not in front of him. Because if I cry, I won’t be able to stop, and he’ll be the one comforting me when I want to be the one comforting him in this moment.

I clear my throat. “It was yours,” I say, more of a statement than a question.